Just Reality

Chapter 9

Why is the maximum security my dads in calling me?

I let it go to voicemail, staring holes into the wall. A familiar burn begins in the back of my eyes and a chill settles over my skull. I shiver,  running my hands up my arms. My phone starts ringing again, and I turn to stare at it. The same words pop up, and I wait out the sound, until the screen turns dark once more.

Grabbing my phone I head up the stairs. Once in the hallway I can hear people talking from the media room, and the sound of water coming from the bathroom.

No way would I walk into that room where Michael could read my face until I've calmed down.

I glance at a clock. 6:50 p.m.

Too early to sleep, but a huge part of me just wants to be alone. No emotion readers. No lie detectors. No statistics. Just alone.

Tiptoeing silently to my room, I walk in and close the door behind me. With a sigh I walk into my closet in search of something a little warmer. I choose a black v-neck cardigan as a shirt, and grey sweats, and before I can even put them on my phone rings again.

Same as before. Oregon State Penitentiary. I roll my eyes and change, waiting for the overbearing sound to silence itself. But in its wake my heart beats twice as fast. Three phone calls in the past maybe five minutes.

I plop down on my bed with a sigh, the mattress sinking beneath me. I lean my back against the headboard and pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself in a hug as I shut my eyes.

What will be, will be.

...

We stand in the warehouse. The building itself is graffitied on the outside, but the interior is absolutely spotless. Not a single stain presides in this big old room, except for the large blood puddles right in the center.

Large heavy duty shelves line the walls, mainly used for storage. On them sits boxes upon boxes, full of multiple brands in case one breaks, wielding equipment, first aid supplies, and hospital items my parents bought off the dark web or stole from Salem Hospital. We have profesional defibrillators, heart machines and loads of other stuff we were able to get from a buddy my father has who works with a hospital manufacturing company. And most importantly, drugs. Not meth or cocaine, but the sedatives and pain medications. Literally any kind of medication or drug they have in a hospital, we have in boxes here. Including everything we need to make Nukkua.

This warehouse is not only a slaughterhouse, but a homemade hospital. When I break a bone, we don't really go to the real professionals anymore. My parents say it's precautionary, trying to make sure my medical records stay as clean as possible, but I don't necessarily understand why.

Would they get arrested by social services when authorities found out how many injures I've sustained from them alone?

But either way, my Mother values her job at Salem Hospital. She's an ER nurse, with long hours during the day. My father, a real estate Agent. He finishes in time to pick me up from school, and my Mom gets home before dinner.

Perfect is what my Mother calls it.

Normal people, with normal jobs. A ten year old daughter in school.

Not suspicious at all, and that's how things are meant to be kept.

Besides the shelves the room is practically empty, save for the metal chair smack dab in the middle. On either side is also a staircase leading upwards. Our preparation zone. When we finish with a victim we take her upstairs to save her while my parents deep clean downstairs.